The Englishman
by El Reino
Summary: You," Alex exclaimed. He felt like the floor was falling out underneath him. He had thought of this day, dreamt of it. But he had never expected hate to well up inside of him. It was his fault he was a slave to MI6. Stupid dead people. Some K-Unit
1. Prolouge Part 1

**I tried to work on my other stories, I really did. But I felt like another one shot and it grew into... this. Ha ha. I hope you like it and reveiw. If you don't like it I would love for you to tell me why. I had a really long prologue and I didn't have time to copy it all down so I will have the next part up really soon.**

**I love reveiws...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own. Simple and to the point.**

**Oh and another disclaimer: I am not English. So if I sound too... well... American, please feel free to slap me over the head with a pan. Other than that, enjoy.**

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Prologue:

**Part One**

They called him the Englishman. They would taunt him with it, while they beat his already bruised and battered body. They hissed it in his ear while he let himself pass out. They yelled it at him to get his attention. They had called him that so many times that he almost forgot his own name.

Some nights he did forget his own name. He would lie on his cot, repeating his name over and over. But in the end he would fall asleep, "The Englishman" on his lips.

* * *

Torture is a delicate art. Push a subject and their mental stability too hard, and you might push them to insanity. Be too light on a person and you'll never get anything out of them. One-Eye lived by these rules.

He was one of the best torturers in the world. He was known for his… unusual… methods. One-eye didn't have another name, and he didn't care. He only lived to cause others pain with his new inventions.

One-eye had lost his eye when _he_ had been tortured by the triads.

One-eye was old. But he was still fit enough, and cruel enough to break a man and that was his employers wanted. He also had a keen sense of when a person would be pushed past their limit of comfort and "break", as they called it in the business. Today would be a day when he would break The Englishman. After more than six months, his hard work would pay off.

* * *

The Englishman had once been a spy. He had been phenomenal at his job. Word was spread that the Devil himself couldn't catch him. But that was before Veritas had gotten to him.

There are many criminal organizations in this world, big and small. Al-Qaeda, The Colombian Drug Cartels, The Mamak Gang, SCORPIA, Dignity and Honor, the Mafias, and the many gangs that roam the world. But with the fall of SCORPIA, there was one group that had risen as one of the most dangerous. Veritas.

It is Latin for truth. An American name Robert D. Geer had founded it in the late 80's. He had been so sickened by the over-indulgence of and the ignorance of his once great country. So he decided to show the world the truth.

_The truth? The truth is the world is an ugly place for the lucky and even more disgusting and scary for the unlucky. But if you paid enough… you might just get a glimpse into what "blessed" looks like._

It might have stayed a small gang, if not for the fact Robert was rich and knew how to get in touch with people. Soon it was a monopoly of power around the world, second best only to SCORPIA. But a boy named Alex Rider had taken care of them.

Veritas owed the boy a debt of gratitude. Once they repaid it, they would kill him.

* * *

One-eye had prided himself in breaking a fully trained mercenary in a matter of days. But the Englishman was different. It had taken the man months. Months! This agent had successfully steeled his mind, impressing even One-eye. No mortal man was _that_ good.

But yet he took his punishment and beatings like one would handle a fly buzzing in one's ear once in a long while. He ignored them. No, he did curl up into a ball with the pain, and sobbing like a small girl had become common place for them. But The Englishman still refused to talk.

But today would be the day he would break.

One-eye's hand curled over the handle of his newest invention and his eyes scanned the familiar room. It was made of concrete, a dim, naked bulb hanging overhead. A metal chair was overturned in a corner and blood stains covered the floor. It looked like something out of a bad movie. It pleased the torturer.

The Englishman was dragged into the room. He had been given two weeks to recover from his latest injuries after the man had almost died. Normally, they would have gotten rid of him months ago, but One-eye loved this plaything. It was a challenge, and he had not had discovered one in such a long time.

So he smiled, a nasty smile (his teeth were disgusting) and raised his weapon. One-eye had made it himself. It was based off a medieval mace. But it did not have one huge spiked ball at the end of the chain. There were about five smaller balls, instead of the one. And the tips were charged with an electric shock, similar to a Taser. It even had a gripped handle!

One-eye felt like giggling. It would tear The Englishman's back open as it sent painful electric shocks through his cuts. It would be _extremely_ painful.

Soon enough, The Englishman was screaming and sobbing at the same time, his back raw, bleeding and on fire.

"Stop!" He cried.

One-eye grinned. It was the first time the man had asked for him to stop. A man could only take so much physical pain, and even if it takes a while, they all break.

The Englishman continued, "I-I just took her to the top… she wanted a puppy…or a mannequin!"

One-eye stared at the man in growing horror. _No…_

The Englishman had come free of his bonds and he was writhing on the floor. Complete gibberish streamed out of his mouth. "Red hair… Brown eyes… looks just like his pappy… Oh, ho! What a wonderful time of the year!

The man had begun to sing! One-eye's fear had come true and it was slowly replaced by disgust as he man continued muttering. This man had not broken, he had _cracked._ The torturer spit to the side. All his hard work had been wasted.

The Englishman was now insane. He had kept in his information for too long. He had resisted too much. He had gone through too much unimaginable pain. It was too much for his mind to bear. It would have been better for him to have broken when he had the chance.

One-eye's grudging respect for the man was gone. There was no more need for him.

The Englishman was still raving. "Smart little fellow…. Like a bug… Ha ha…Gray man… Peppermints!"

One-eye knocked the man over the head. The Englishman fell limp and guards rushed in to take him back to his cell for the night. They would kill him in the morning.

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**Remember, more reviews means more motivation to finish the next chapter faster! ;)**

**It kind of jumps all over the place, sorry about that. It's late and I'm tired...**


	2. Part 2

**Prologue**

**Part 2**

The Englishman was thrown into his bare cell. His forehead hit the edge of his cot, opening a small gash in his skin. But the pain was nothing compared to the throbbing that was his back. He felt like his backside was on fire.

The Englishman slowly crawled onto his cot. He lay on his stomach, sore and bruised. The man took stock of his injuries. A black eye. A split lip. A broken rib.

That was just the beginning. Even though they had given him a reprieve his wrist still ached when they had broken it and it had healed wrong. But that was no problem, they had broken it again. He felt and looked like a giant bruise. Scars littered his body.

Now his back.

The Englishman _had_ to get out of there.

* * *

It's not like he hadn't tried to escape before. He had tried. Many times. But his luck had run out since he had been captured. The Englishman had paid dearly for his efforts. But he just _couldn't _stand being locked up!

He was going insane. No doubt about it. He could practically feel his sanity slipping away. He still muttered randomly to himself. "Es muy peligroso… Don't touch! Pumpkins, and spices, and candies, oh my! …. Bonjour!"

The Englishman sobbed: half a good-bye to his sanity and half because he couldn't control anything anymore. He would have pissed himself if anything was in his bladder. He muttered on Russian. Then he laughed.

It was a cruel, cold laugh. It was the laugh of a madman. But it was too late to fix it. The Englishman was crazy.

Colors whirled across his vision. Laughs bubbled out of nowhere. His back burned. He was spinning… spinning. The colors whirled faster. The laughs reverberated painfully in his head. Everything was going black, hazy, demented…

_No!_

Images from his life flashed through his head. The colors danced. Laughing grew. Spinning faster. It was getting hard to breathe. Gibberish raged from his mouth. He couldn't feel his extremities.

Losing himself…. Losing… Losing…

No! The Englishman could _not _let himself lose it! An image floated by and he grabbed onto it. It was an image of a boy, roughly fourteen or fifteen with blond hair and clear brown eyes.

Alex Rider.

There was a reason to keep his sanity. He clung to it like a man out to sea in a storm. He could _not_ die here. He could _not_ go mad! He could not fail. He needed to get out of here, if only for Alex.

It was the sanest thought he had had all day.

* * *

The Englishman knew he had to escape tonight. His captors thought he was mad, and they would probably kill him soon. He knew he was of no use to them.

He allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction. Almost eight months he had suffered and almost eight months had passed without him divulging a single detail. His company hadn't come to get him, and he had stopped waiting for them. But at that moment he swore he would remind them he was alive. He would remind them there were consequences of ignoring a man like him.

Voices outside his door jerked The Englishman out of his reverie. He stiffened, but fell limp, pretending to sleep.

"Hey, Johnny."

Johnny was his guard. The Englishman knew that.

"Hey, Malik."

They talked for a while.

"How your idiot?" Malik asked.

Johnny laughed. "Mad. Purely insane. He fell asleep a while ago though."

Malik laughed. His voice was deep, but The Englishman knew the sound of a person's voice was deceiving. He prepared to tune the conversation out. He needed to plan. He already knew most of the building's layout. He knew a weakness in the outer defenses. Now he needed to order what he was going to do in his head.

But something in the conversation stopped him short.

"Those SAS punks. Where are they?" Johnny asked.

"Those turds? They tried to invade the Research Department the other day, looking for that new bomb we got."

"I know that."

"Well One-eye's gonna act like he doesn't know what they were doing here. He's gonna ask them _real_ nicely."

They both laughed.

Those sick…

The Englishman shook his head. He was getting out of there. Soon he would never see Malik, Johnny, One-eye, or any of those sick men again.

Thirty minutes later, a guttural scream came from a cell down the hall. The Englishman would get those SAS men out too.

* * *

A man known only as Wolf paced in front of his cell door. His unit mate, Eagle, lay in the corner bleeding and writhing in pain. Wolf felt the rage welling up inside him. Snake, another man from the unit, assessed Eagle's wounds.

Wolf punched the wall in anger as Eagle passed out in the pain. Another unit mate, a new one, watched Wolf calmly. His code name was Coyote.

"Don't hurt yourself Wolf." That was all he said.

Wolf sneered at him. He was too angry to do anything else. He was getting out of here.

Late at night, when Eagle had finally woken up, and was grinning even though he was sweating and shaking with the pain, something happened. There was a struggle outside their door. Wolf bolted up, jumping in front of Eagle. He adopted a defensive stance, ready to protect his mate against whatever may come through that door.

There was a key scratching in the lock and the door flew open. What Wolf saw took him totally by surprise. There was a man, clearly beaten up. His brown hair was messy and his gray eyes were wide. His bloody shirt hung off his thin frame in strips. Bruises littered his body. He was holding his arm close to his body.

It was clearly broken.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Then the man smiled. He had a tooth cracked. "'Ello, boys. Do you want to get out of here or not?"

Wolf narrowed his eyes. Who was this man? "Who are you?"

The man paused. "English government… You can call me The Englishman."

Eagle groaned. "Hello. Dying man here. I would love to get out of here, thank you very much."

Wolf wouldn't have agreed but he couldn't stand seeing Eagle in so much pain. He picked up his unit mate and grudgingly followed the… The Englishman.

* * *

They were outside. The Englishman was breathing hard, his side paining him. The others were hardly out of breath. Snake saw the man wincing and made a mental note to ask him about it later. But then they were up and running. The guards were looking elsewhere, the lights passing to the side of them, not touching them. They were unseen. They were desperate. They wanted to get the hell out of dodge.

There. A break in the fence. It was almost too perfect. Wolf crushed the excitement rising in his heart. Emotions could get him killed at this stage. Wolf placed Eagle on his feet and he hobbled out, needing to be caught by The Englishman on the other side. They both stumbled.

The Englishman smiled, helped Snake steady his burden, and then faced Wolf.

"There you go, mate." The Englishman was giddy. It was the first time he had been free.

Trees and darkness encroached on all sides. It was cold, but it was fresh. But The Englishman was shaking. He had exerted his tired body too much. Darkness encroached around his vision.

Then it all went black.

* * *

Wolf watched The Englishman try to steady himself. But it was of no use. He fell to the ground, face first. Wolf groaned.

Another man to carry.

But he wouldn't complain. He owed this man his life.

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**Sorry if the end is choppy. And sorry if I didn't edit this well. I'm tired. I need to stop sleeping more. But here's the chapter I promised you so please, please, please review so I can get some sleep!**


	3. Chapter 1

**Ha ha, in my last author's note, I wrote I need to **_**stop **_**sleeping to remedy the fact I was tired… Heh… I need to **_**start**_** sleeping more, and maybe I won't make mistakes like that anymore…**

**And so it continues. I would like to thank all my FABULOUS reviewers, and the academy, and my parents of course… Ha.**

**Don't forget to review how much you like it, don't like it, hate it, love it, whatever. Just review and I'll update. ******

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Chapter 1

To a passerby, he looked like a normal (if not handsome) man, wearing a normal looking (if not baggy) suit, standing in front of a normal (if not boring building). But for as long as that sentence was, The Englishman knew there was more than met the eye.

He was not a normal man. He was a spy. This was not his suit. It was Theo's (Snake's). This was not a normal building. It was actually MI6 headquarters and The Englishman had been here many times before.

Two weeks had passed since his escape with a unit of SAS men. After he had blacked out, they had taken pity on him, even pulling strings to get him in the same room as Mark (Eagle) in their local military hospital. He had learned their names, code and real. They paid for his bill, watched over him and Theo had even lent him his own suit. The Englishman knew that this was their way of saying thank-you and when this was done, he would probably never see him again. But that didn't bother him. It was just the way things went.

The lone man took a deep breath and walked up to the Royal and General Bank. In the glass doors, he checked his reflection. The three-piece suit he was wearing helped take away attention from the sling holding his wounded arm. The sight of himself reminded him that it would be impossible to go to work right away. Heck, The Englishman hadn't even visited his old home yet.

How would he be received? His heart sank to his toes, and grief washed over him. Would the people at home think he had abandoned them? Did they think he was dead?

The Englishman winced, shook his head once more, and mentally steeled himself. He opened the door. The lobby was exactly how he remembered it. Everything from the light brown linoleum, to that comfortable brown couch was the same. No, there was a new fake plant in the far corner. But other than that…

The Englishman's gray eyes scoped the place. He assessed potential enemies, hidden weapons and cameras. A small smile took over his face. Even eight months later, he still had it.

The Englishman looked down at the desk in front of him. He was surprised; his legs had automatically carried him to the reception desk. It was the same desk as always. He spread his spare hand over the top of the mahogany desk, reveling in this small comfort.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist asked, never looking up at him. Her attention was fixed on her computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

The Englishman cracked a small grin at the flash of jewelry on her finger. _She's married. Good for her._ A depressing thought hit him. _I wonder what else I missed._

"Sir, can I help you?" She still hadn't looked at him.

He cleared his throat and his thoughts. "I need to see an Alan Blunt," he said.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but there is no one by that name h-"

"Marla," he interrupted, "it's me."

The receptionist finally looked up at him. Then her face paled as recognition hit her.

* * *

Alan Blunt was a man who didn't like surprises. It was mostly because he knew too much to be surprised anymore. When his wife and child were killed, that wasn't startling. Devastating, but not surprising. When John and Helen had been killed, it was not unforeseen. That kind of risk came with the job, everyone knew that. When Ian had been killed, it was a shame but still not shocking.

When Alex had barged into his office, and claimed he would off himself if they tried to use him again, it still didn't come as a surprise to Blunt. He knew the child would come back. Especially when the dreams and memories and the lack of the addicting adrenaline became too much for him. Blunt knew this would happen, because it had happened to him.

Blunt's thoughts wandered as he predicted more of what would happen to Alex.

He knew Alex would come back and demand why he had never been assigned a therapist. Then Blunt would have to inform the foolish child he had never asked for one.

Internally, Blunt laughed. Alex Rider was no child. But he was no Alan Blunt either.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

"Enter." His voice was practical, boring.

His secretary, Linda, came in with her boss' daily cup of tea. She knew he poured it out in his plant when she was gone, but he asked for it and she gave it to him. Blunt looked up to ask her for a favor and noticed something. Her face was pale and her hands were shaking. It was obvious to him that she was trying to keep control of her emotions.

It was then Alan Blunt was surprised for the first time since he was fourteen.

It was not like he keeled over in shock. It was just a fact people (including him) were emotional. They were irrationally, petty.

But Linda kept her emotions and curiosity under control. She didn't get involved, and therefore she couldn't be tortured for information. She didn't let her emotions get in the way of her job. She was Blunt's dream come true.

But now she looked almost scared, as if she had seen something unnatural.

"Is there anything else Miss Jenkins?"

She took a deep breath. "I-I…"

Blunt tried his best not to smash her head into his desk. He was a rational man, a patient man. It would not be in his best interests to damage her head. Even though she was annoying him with her blathering.

Even though he really wanted to.

He watched with disgust as she ran a shaky hand through her hair.

"It's just… I… umm."

"Is this a personal matter?" He finally broke in calmly. She should know he couldn't care less that she had recently broken up with her boyfriend.

He did care that her boyfriend had some questionable ties. He did care that a MI6 agent (her 'brother') had threatened him the other day. But that was insignificant.

Linda let a wave of shock rip through her features. "No… No!"

He looked at her.

She nodded and finally took control of her emotions. "There… I… T-There is someone here to see you… Sir."

Alan Blunt held in a growl. "Did they have an appointment?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Nobody comes in without an appointment," he droned.

Linda smiled a bit. "Behold, my son was dead but is now alive, was lost but now found."

Blunt held in a sardonic laugh. Scripture. "Linda, I'm busy." _Go away._

"Mr. Blunt, I would not waste your time unless he was Alex Rider or someone more important than him."

"Linda…"

"Sir, Ms. Jones insisted you had to admit… _him_."

Blunt was gripping the desk in anger. But if you looked at him, you would have thought he was bored.

"Fine. Bring him in."

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I was planning to update last week, but it just didn't work out. I hope you enjoyed this.

**And questions? Comments? Concerns? Don't forget to tell me. **


	4. Chapter 2

**THE IDENTITY OF THE ENGLISHMAN IS REVEALED IN THIS CHAPTER! THIS IS TRUE! **

**Since so much is happening in this, it is longer and took me longer too. I'm sorry if there are any mistakes but was just so exited and I wanted to update! But I'm going to make **

**XxXmaximuM-RideRXxX my beta if she still wants to be!!!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

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Mrs. Jones had walked into Alan Blunt's office, wide-eyed. She quickly informed him all would be revealed when he saw their guest. Blunt had agreed, because he trusted his Deputy… Well as much as he let himself trust anyone… So bluntly, he commanded her to collect herself.

The woman nodded, smoothed out her skirt and began to unwrap a peppermint.

Blunt never wondered about her peppermint fetish. He knew it was her way of coping. Almost every human, especially spies, had one way of dealing with things. Everyone is weak, emotional, and don't like to get their hands dirty. But when it becomes necessary to walk in the dark and scary, people just need ways to cope.

Some people find comfort in small things, like peppermints. Others pretend everything is normal in their home lives. Some develop tics, like Crawley 's annoying habit to click pens, or staple random papers whenever he was inactive. Shoot, even the urban legend, James Bond had found his comfort in women.

(Alan Blunt squashed the need to roll his eyes. He was glad he had fired the man. Bond had become a sort of egomaniac in his later years.)

But there were some who had become desensitized to it all. Like a certain Alan Blunt, who had his gray demeanor to prove it.

So as the emotionally challenged Alan Blunt stared at the door, and Ms. Jones calmed down, the door slowly opened.

* * *

The Englishman took a deep breath. There he was, standing outside his boss' office. He was standing in front of Alan Blunt's office. There was no telling how he would be received. But he hoped he could get some kind of job back, he needed the money.

The Englishman winced. He was nervous and he was surprised if the whole world couldn't pick up on that little fact already. But it was kind of amusing in a morbid, little way. He had gone through _months_ of torture, and yet here he was, afraid he might not be received as well as he would like.

He snorted.

But still…

_No._

He summoned up his courage and pushed open the heavy door. The office was the same, like the lobby. There were the same chairs, the same potted plants, the same desk, and the same people. There was Half-Dead Blunt, and Bad-Haircut Jones.

Oh how he had loathed and missed them.

A flicker of surprise crossed Alan Blunt's face. It caused a smirk to grace The Englishman's.

"'Ello there. Miss me, or were you the ones who tried to get rid of me?" The Englishman greeted them.

He was being reckless, unprofessional, but he had been in Hell for a long time. His professional attitude could be used as toilet paper for an elephant for all he cared.

Ms. Jones blinked. The man was acting as if he hadn't a care in the world! Blunt's eye twitched.

He opened his mouth to speak, "Agent-"

"Please," The Englishman interrupted, "don't call me by my name just yet, Sir. I'm not used to it you see, and it would be very awkward."

Blunt nodding. He didn't care what the former agent would like to be called. He was nonplussed that for the first time in years, someone had dared interrupt him. "I expect a full report of what happened to you. You should be dead. We gave away your mission, burned your files, cleaned out your office, and wiped you off our records. We were not prepared, or are prepared for this development."

The Englishman helped himself to a chair. He had expected as much. "Did you give my office away?"

Alan Blunt looked up at Jones, guiltily. "Well, no. But we were preparing to."

The Englishman narrowed his eyes. Something was going on here.

Ms. Jones cleared her throat. "We have not yet found anyone willing to fill your position."

The former agent felt a growing unease, but he shook it off. Then he grinned, pretending to buy into Jones' story. She meant they hadn't found anyone as good as him. The Englishman had been good, there was no denying that.

Blunt tried to ignore the grin. It unnerved him. This whole thing unnerved him. Here was a dead man standing in front of him. He had made sure of it.

But Blunt shook it off. "You will be questioned by an Agent Daniels. This situation will be good practice for him, since this agency hasn't encountered anything like this for many years. Do you know you cannot leave until we have cleared this up, right?"

The Englishman nodded. He prepared to walk away, but stopped.

"Sir?" They were back to formalities.

"Yes?"

"May I be described a therapist?" The Englishman asked. He wasn't admitting he was weak, or the fact he had cracked under the pressure. But he was acknowledging the fact that the mind was a weak thing.

Blunt fought his hardest not to smile. He hadn't smiled in a long time. There was a smart man.

"Yes, I'll prescribe one now."

* * *

The Englishman sat on a steel table in the bowels of The Royal and General Bank. He tapped the table with the tips of his fingers impatiently. The walls were dull and concrete and they reminded him of another place, another time. He fought off the waves of fear.

Fear was weakness, John had told him that. But it could be used to his advantage. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He needed to keep it together. He was good at that.

The door opened, causing The Englishman to stand up. A man, younger than him, in a smart-looking suit walked in. He had a somewhat stern face and slightly red hair. The Englishman excused the stern face. Everyone in this place was stern.

The stern man also had a sling on his arm. The Englishman cracked another grin. "Seems like we both have had a stroke of bad luck." He motioned to his own sling.

Daniels momentarily cast away his severe countenance. "I would shake your hand but…"

"I understand. Same here."

They sat, smiling. But their smiles were soon to fade as they got right back down to business."

The red-head took a breath. "My name is Ben Daniels, or Agent Daniels. I will be conducting the investigation into why you were missing and pronounced dead."

"I was kidnapped."

"Excuse me?"

"The reason I was missing and presumed dead is because I was kidnapped by a criminal organization while I was attempting to escape from the assassin, Yassen Gregorovich, during the Stormbreaker mission, then I was pumped for information about MI6." The Englishman said in one breath.

Daniels blinked. "_What_?"

* * *

"So let me see if I have this straight. You were shot by the assassin, Yassen Gregorovich, who was hired by Herod Sayle, during the mission with the Stormbreakers."

"Yes."

"But you didn't die because your car was a proto-type for a special bullet-proof car, and thus, even though the bullets still hit you, their impact was lessened."

"Yes."

"So then as you tried to escape from your car, you were apprehended by the criminal organization, _Veritas_."

"Yes."

"You were then pumped for information (tortured), for more than eight months. You tried to escape many times, but you failed."

"Yes."

"Yet, one night, you managed to escape with a team of SAS men, who had been captured that day."

"Yes." The Englishman was calm, now serious. If they didn't believe him, they would kill him. There was no doubt about it. So he wasn't going to tell them how close he had gotten to insanity, which had given him the opportunity to escape.

Daniels looked at him, his eyes strained and tired. "Mr.-"

The Englishman leaned forward. "I know you don't believe me Agent Daniels. You're a suspicious man. You have to be in this business. But I am and was a suspicious man too. Now, I am just plain impatient. All I want you to do is tell MI6 that I am back, maybe get some kind of income and go home.

"I do not appreciate you questioning me about that fact I was tortured. You want the truth? I was beaten within an inch of my life. I experienced more pain that I thought was possible. And yes, I screamed like a little schoolgirl. So if you would please just listen to what I have to say, you'll have more time to investigate. Agreed?"

The Englishman and Daniels locked gazes. Daniels was trying to break the man down, intimidate him. But The Englishman had been playing this game much, much longer. Daniels blinked.

Daniels mentally sighed. He was good at figuring out when a person was lying. He could tell when Wolf said everything was alright at home. It wasn't. His girlfriend had dumped him.

He could tell that Snake had an unexpected visitor, but tried to hide it.

He could tell that this man wasn't lying. Damn.

* * *

More than three weeks had passed. Almost a month. The Englishman's days had been comprised of questioning, people confirming his story, and getting his legal affairs in order. MI6 had handled most of his legal affairs so it hadn't been that hard.

It was midday and there wasn't even a cloud in the sky. That was strange for this time of year. People all around were soaking it up. Kids played, even though it was a school day. Parents and couples walked hand in hand in a nearby park. Everyone seemed to be happy. Everyone except The Englishman.

Why couldn't he be happy?

He was nervous, plain and simple. Jones had cornered him on the lift right before he had left and given him a talking to. She had informed him how much had changed. She told him so much had changed with a certain Alex Rider. His heart had sunk to his toes and he had wondered if all that had happened to the boy was his fault.

The lone man stopped with a start. He was in front of his house and he hadn't even realized it. He looked on it, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. There were flowers all along the front, but other than that it was the same.

The Englishman tugged nervously at the shirt MI6 had issued him. He felt inadequately dressed for an occasion like this. His heart rate was elevated and his abdomen felt like jelly.

He chuckled. He had faced many, _many_ life or death experiences without even blinking. But a simple reunion had him whimpering in the corner like a little girl. His therapist said it might be uncomfortable. But he hated therapists.

He could do this.

A certain Ben Daniels watched as a man walked out of The Royal and General Bank. He shook his head. The man had called himself 'The Englishman'.

Daniels pulled out his phone and dialed a number he had memorized.

"Yes?" a rough voice asked.

"Your Englishman just left the building. Remember, I had no part in this."

"Agreed."

Ben had already begun to hang up.

* * *

The Englishman took a deep breath, composed himself and rang the doorbell.

"Just a sec!" He heard a feminine voice call from inside the house.

His throat constricted. He was being more emotional than he was used to… He swallowed a ball in his throat.

The door flew open, and The Englishman was immediately frozen in his place. He could do nothing but stare at the woman in front of him with wide-eyes. He had forgotten how beautiful she was.

She also stared at him, stiff in the doorway.

He was about to say something, anything that popped into his head, but Jack beat him to the punch. She grabbed a nearby umbrella and wielded it like a sword. In her hands, and with her expression, it almost looked dangerous.

"I don't know who you are, or who you're trying to trick," she growled, "but I want you to get off my property. Now."

Panic rose up in him. "No. No, Jack it's me."

"I said to get off my property," she snarled.

"No. I- I can prove it." He looked around, grasping at straws. But nothing came.

"I'm gonna call the cops, if you don't get off in three… two…"

"I can prove it's me. Just give me a second." With her ultimatum he had snapped back to reality. He needed to be calm. That's how she remembered him.

An idea hit him. "You have a tattoo of a butterfly right above your navel. I saw it when I accidently walked in on you one time."

She just looked at him and he winced. Any one of her boyfriends would have known that. But she didn't give him another chance. Jack quickly tried to slam the door close.

"Wait!" He stuck his foot in the door. He became panicked again. "You have a Berretta semi-automatic handgun that your father gave to you. He received it from a friend the year he quit the military. He gave it to you, because you both didn't know about the gun laws over here. You snuck it in, you know how to shoot it, but you asked me if I knew how to clean it because you had forgotten."

The anger slowly faded off her face. "W-what color was it?"

"Sliver. Expensive. I never told anyone."

Her suspicion was fading, he could tell. "Why… do you remember why I asked you of all people?"

"You knew I went to a gun range once or twice."

Her jaw dropped to the floor, and the door swung open. "It's you…"

The Englishman grinned, warmth surging through his heart. "Yes, Jack. It's me."

"Ian!"

**

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**

PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW AND TELL ME IF YOU ARE DISSAPOINTED!

**Man, I had fun….**


	5. Chapter 3

**And so it continues. Wow, I just have to thank ALL my awesome reviewers and readers for sticking with me. Sorry about the wait, we had some issues with beta-ing this chapter, but we got it fixed. I hope ya'll had awesome Christmases, Kwanzaas, Hanukkahs, and New Years! And if you didn't… Well there is always next year!**

**Hope you like this chapter and a big shout out to my beta **XxXmaximuM-RideRXxX!!!!

**Oh and before I forget, The Englishman had pretty much forgotten his own name, so it'll switch between The Englishman and Ian just because he is trying to get used to his old name. Thanks!**

* * *

"Ian!"

He reveled in his name coming from such a familiar and welcome face. His grin became impossibly bigger as he stared at the surprised Jack.

He felt truly happy for the second time. Of course nothing could compare to the rush of emotions that had attacked him when he had first realized he had escaped from that _place..._ but this came close.

"I-It can't be you!" Jack exclaimed. The Englishman watched the emotions rove over her face. Fear, slight anger, disbelief, excitement, and a few other emotions he had forgotten over the months.

She waved her arms in the air, "You're dead!"

Ian grinned. "Yes, Jack. I'm an apparition. I have come to make your life miserable." He shook his head. "I would never do that to you Jack..."

Sarcasm! Ha had used sarcasm! The Englishman had thought it had gotten beaten out of him the fourth month in. He was going to miss those back teeth… Anyway, it was only a little bit of sarcasm. But it was enough for him.

Jack continued. "We went to your funeral! We packed up your clothes! Alex saw… Alex saw your car!"

Ian winced. Alex had seen his car, and therefore gotten into a bunch of trouble. And The Englishman had been powerless to stop it.

**

* * *

**

8:00 THAT MORNING

_The Englishman stepped onto the lift, somewhat depressed. He had been woken up by a nightmare at three in the morning this morning. He went to visit his therapist, unable to go back to sleep, and because she had ordered him to see her whenever he had one. But the woman could be more devious than One-eye. She almost had no trouble breaking him._

_All The Englishman knew was that he wanted out of there. He could only stand the spies and the lies for so long. _

_Ms. Jones entered behind him, as silent as a lamb. She settled in beside him, and he reached over to press the button for his desired floor. The door closed and slowly the lift started moving._

_Ms. Jones shifted and it stopped._

_Ian looked over at her. He was not alarmed, only interested._

"_I have only 60 seconds to talk, so you need to listen Rider."_

_Ian nodded, serious. A small dose of familiar excitement coursed through him. As much as The Englishman hated the lying, the paperwork, the backstabbing, and the torture, he still had to admit he loved his job. If he really had been someone who worked at a normal bank, he probably would have blown his brains out years ago._

_The Englishman ordered himself to the present. There was no time to lose his concentration._

"_A lot of things can happen in eight months. He has gone." Jones stated vaguely._

_He sighed and nodded. Blunt has gone mad with power is what she meant. He couldn't say he was surprised. Most of the MI6 heads became disillusioned with their power. It was just the natural order of things._

"_He is listening in then?" The Englishman asked. Mad people become paranoid. If Blunt thought if anyone was even sneezing wrong, they would surely be killed._

_Jones shook her head. "Right now Blunt sees and hears you pressing various buttons, and I'm telling you this keeps on happening lately. Nothing more nothing less. Thank our friend."_

_Smithers. He allowed himself a small smile. Ian had always liked Smithers._

"_Anyway, Rider, I felt the need to inform you of your nephew before you went home."_

_The Englishman's stomach clenched. What had happened to his nephew?_

"_Blunt proceeded with the Stormbreaker mission despite your… disappearance."_

_The Englishman felt like his knees would give out. They couldn't… they couldn't have._

_Jones noticed his expression but resumed talking. She only had 60 seconds after all. "Blunt took advantage of Alex, like a serial rapist takes advantage of a single, defenseless girl. Despite that disturbing metaphor, it's true. He's been on almost seven missions in nine months with little or no training, and definitely no weapons. It is a miracle he is alive. So you might want to be worried about his mental health before you go home."_

_Ian was too stunned to respond. This was his fault wasn't it?_

_Ms. Jones leaned over and slipped a contact box in his shaking hand without even looking at him. "Our friend downloaded Alex's unofficial and official file in those contacts. It has everything in there. Don't wear them in the building, the cameras can detect it. So long Ian, be careful."_

_He could only stare at the elevator door in shock. But he still had good sense to stick the box in his pocket. As soon as he did so, Ms. Jones resumed her former position, and pressed a button on her watch. The elevator started sliding downwards as if nothing had happened._

* * *

The Englishman-no- Ian returned his gaze to Jack who was still spluttering about how he should be dead.

He laughed. "Jack, Jack. It's truly me and I'm alive. I don't really want you to apologize about packing up my stuff. You thought I was dead, I get that. But now I'm back." He smiled and cocked his brow at the red-head. "Anyway, am I welcome back, or should I find another place to sleep?"

Tears sprang up in Jack's eyes and he watched as she valiantly fought to hold them back. "It's really you," she whispered.

The-Ian opened his mouth to answer, but Jack threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He stood there, shocked, and pushed down his instincts that were telling him that he was being attacked. He wasn't and this was just a hug. But he had gone without normal human contact for so long.

He should have been happy that Jack believed him. But he wasn't. He was scared. Alarms were ringing in his head, telling him that this woman was going to hurt him. She wasn't. So The Englishman stood stock still, determined not to punch her and run away.

Jack was unaware of this, and buried her face in his shoulder. Her own shoulders shook with silent sobs.

"Of course, of course… of course you can stay. B-but Alex… They used Alex… He's different… A-and it scares me Ian…."

He nodded stiffly. "I know Jack. I'm sorry."

She nodded into his shoulder and sniffed.

The Englishman clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, bracing himself. Then he reached up to awkwardly pat her on the back. So many emotions were coursing through him. Remorse. Grief. Anger. Surprise. Fear. Dread. It would have been hard to keep a handle on them all. But he was a professional. Professionals brushed away their emotions and sometimes examined them later.

He let Jack hug him for a few more seconds. She needed the comfort, the support. Then as gently as he could, he detangled himself from her. He needed to report back, get his stuff, and look over Alex's file.

"Listen, Jack," he started softly, "I need to go and get my stuff. I'll be back before Alex comes back from school. We'll talk, okay?"

She sniffed. "You promise you'll come back? You promise this isn't just a dream?"

"I promise Jack." Oh man, oh man, what happened in the last few months? What happened to make strong Jack so weary, so sad? Ian almost didn't want to find out.

"Really?"

He winced. "Jack look at me." She did. "Jack, I let you and Alex down once. I left you once. Never again."

She nodded and sniffed once more, gathering herself. The Englishman didn't want to leave her like this. He would never forgive himself. But she blinked the tears out of her eyes and straightened, looking him in the eye proudly.

"Yes, you will come back, Ian. If you don't I'll dig up your grave, pound your bones into dust and curse you for all eternity for messing with my emotions."

He grinned a little. There was the Jack he remembered. "I'm coming back." He nodded, smiled at her, then turned on his heel and left.

Ian sat on a bench in the park he had spotted earlier. He was situated between a tree and a lively football game. Another tree loomed overhead. It was a small bit of cover, but it was enough.

He summoned a deep breath and pulled the contacts out of his pocket. He took one of them out and examined it. The contact looked normal size, and clear, except they had a slight green tint to them. He shrugged.

Smithers created the gadgets, Ian used them, and he needed to trust that they wouldn't make him blind. End of story.

But that didn't stop the Englishman from feeling a wee bit paranoid as he slipped them into his eyes. As expected they reacted violently and he squeezed them shut as tears sprang up into his eyes.

Then the discomfort dissipated and he dared to slowly open his eyes. His vision was blurry. He blinked a few more times and it passed.

Glowing green letters popped out of thin air.

The Englishman jumped back. The letters followed him. He moved his head to the side. The letters moved to the side. He blinked. They were still there!

He started hyperventilating, remembering the night when he had almost lost his mind. When the colors swirled and people who were dead talked to him...

Ian let out a breath. He wasn't going mad again. It was the contacts! He narrowed his eyes slightly as he tried to focus on the letters.

HELLO OLD CHAP. GLAD YOU'RE NOT DEAD. BLINK ONCE TO SCROLL DOWN.

He blinked once.

GOOD LAD. NOW THESE ARE A PROTOTYPE, SO IF THEY GLITCH UP, IT'S NOT REALLY MY FAULT.

Ian blinked once and chuckled. That didn't help quell his fears about him going blind. In fact, these contacts were kind of straining to the eyes. It was also hard to control his blinks too.

But this was fun, he had to admit that.

BLINK TWICE TO SCROLL BACK UP. CLOSE EYES FOR FIVE SECONDS TO TURN OFF.

Blink.

MISSIONS ARE IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. KEEP IN MIND SUBJECT HAS NEVER BEEN

Blink, blink.

He swore as he accidentally scrolled back up.

Blink… Blink.

...TO A HOSPITAL FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME. THESE FILES ARE OFFICIAL, AND ALSO PRODUCTS…

Blink.

…OF MY OWN INVESTIGATION. MS. JONES HAS ALSO ADDED OBSERVATIONS OF HER OWN…

Blink.

AND OBSERVATIONS OF THE AGENTS SENT PERIODICALLY TO WATCH HIM AS WELL.

Ian took a deep breath. _And so it begins…_

* * *

Ben Daniels was bent over his paperwork in deep concentration when his mobile rang. He absently reached for it with his bad arm, and succeeded in knocking it to the floor. The annoying piece of plastic buzzed over and over. He cursed under his breath.

Ben flexed his arm, trying it out. It was still a little stiff, but it was usable. He leaned down hurriedly, to try and catch the caller.

But as soon as the phone was picked up off the floor, it stopped ringing. He growled and returned to his work.

Stupid phones.

His office phone started ringing. The exasperated man sighed and picked up the phone angrily.

"_Hello?_" After a pause he scolded himself. He was going to get himself binned with an attitude like that.

"Is he there?"

Ben's anger returned. "I thought I told you never to call me again!" He paused and berated himself. He had just made all the alarms go off with the people who listened in on the phone taps and he knew it…

The voice on the other side laughed. "We both know you aren't being serious."

"This phone is for work, not for personal time, that's all." He tried to cover up reason for growing suspicion with a stupid excuse.

The person on the other end grunted. "I could care less. Where is our fellow _Englishman_?"

Ben sighed. "Call me on my mobile."

"I did, Daniels."

"Then do it again! ... Sir."

The line went dead. A few seconds later, Daniels mobile ran again.

"He left," Ben answered.

"No hello?"

"Left his morning. He's at a park right now. Two agents are following him. Company policy."

"Good policy. And what exactly is he doing?"

"He's sitting on a bench."

"_What?"_

"I said: he's sitting on a bench."

"Why?"

Ben sighed. "How should I know? Now I have to work. I told you not to call me about this again. Good-bye." He hung up and returned to his work.

Two floors up, an Alan Blunt put down his own phone after listening in on the conversation. That Daniels was a funny new agent, he'd give him that.

So Rider was just sitting? That wasn't like him. The man was a man of action, he could hardly sit still. But he had changed.

Blunt resolved to keep an even closer eye on the man. No one knew how _much_ the man had changed.

Blunt was unaware at the time he would unearth something dangerous. Something that would probably kill most parties involved. No matter, the paranoid man returned to his work, oblivious as a paranoid man could be

* * *

It had always been known that Alex would be taken with Ian in the Stormbreaker mission. In fact, Ian himself had planned it. If he hadn't planned it, Blunt would have. And Blunt couldn't care less if Alex died or not.

So Ian had set it up. The map, the wetsuit, and even the underwater cord. Ian would set it up, and Alex and him would have gone and busted Sayle together. Of course Alex wouldn't have known he was working for MI6. Ian had an airtight excuse and everything.

He had forgotten the excuse by now…

Anyway, Blunt had been extremely power hungry then too. He wouldn't listen to Ian begging for his nephew to be spared. Blunt could test the child's skills when he was eighteen, not at fourteen.

Alan threatened to tell the child everything. To tell him that he had been trained all this time. To tell him that all Ian was doing was training a spy.

The head of MI6 would have convinced Alex that his uncle didn't love him. Ian was sure about that.

So all The Englishman could do was plan to be right there with Alex. They would have done all that together. But instead John's son had almost been killed by an oversized jellyfish.

Ian half sobbed with grief. He hadn't been there for his nephew. He had failed. When The Englishman was being tortured, he had always believed that Blunt would put his experiment on hold. He believed that Alex would stay safe.

This hope was one of the only things that kept him going.

The MI6 agent had only gotten half-way through Alex's "Eagle Strike" mission and already he was emotionally overwhelmed for Alex. He had spent all of Alex's life vowing that he would protect the child. Now Alex was practically an agent himself.

He realized two things at once. One: He could see that Blunt was going mad and he needed to be taken out. Two: At this rate, Alex was going to die before he was fifteen and a half.

**

* * *

**

Okay, so I have to admit, this might not me the confrontation you guys have been waiting for, so I apologize. But it just builds up the suspense doesn't it? (Grins) But no, seriously you WILL see Alex in the next chapter. Hey, it might even be in his point of view… But only if you guys review and say you want it. (Yes, I know, I'm shameful.)

**So if you guys loved it, hated it, have any questions, comments, concerns, please don't be afraid to click that… green button I think.**

**(I miss my purple button…)**


	6. Chapter 4

**Hey everybody! Sorry about the long wait, but my beta and I had a few technical difficulties. I thank awesome XxXmaximuM-RideRXxX for putting up with me, she doesn't have to. (I'm horrible, I really am, ha ha.) But thanks to all my fabulous reveiwers, seriously, I can't get enough of you guys. This is the chapter most of you guys have been waiting for, I really hope it doesn't dissapoint! (Oh and if I didn't answer your reviews, don't be afraid to leave another one and tell me how much you want me to... :) )**

**RemusAndMe: I'm so glad you think I am the exeception! Ahh, I can't tell you how great that is. I hope this chapter will satisfy!**

**Beth W: :) ;) Right back at ya. Glad you think it worthwhile! (As if all this gushing wasn't enough.)**

**..: I don't get it... Am I supposed to be afraid? Honestly, I don't know what to make of this. But hey, I guess I should be happy you, your bf, anf your friends are so attached to this story that you would send me an angry review for updates like that. :D**

* * *

Ian stood with his hands on his hips and his back to the sun like an American gunslinger. He noticed everything without really registering it. A car honked in the distance. Buildings loomed overhead, as if they wanted to remind people of the mighty power of the modern world. People walked nearby chatting on their mobiles about everything and nothing. But The Englishman was only interested in the information he had learned in the last few hours.

There were twenty-two vantage points for a sniper to hide, not including open windows, or other obstructions such as doorways or parked cars. It had seemed that MI6 had covered them all. They had blocked off all roof access to the surrounding buildings, cameras and motion detectors has been stationed where it was deemed necessary and the windows were made to let in only light, not air. The rest of the 'hot spots' were covered up, torn down, or turned into MI6 outposts, including restricting cars to park on the surrounding roads.

Yet, despite these almost extreme and lengthy defenses one SCORPIA sniper had somehow gotten through and shot a defenseless fourteen-year-old walking out of the building.

The lone man took one last glance at the vague bloodstain that had been all but washed away by rain and the elements. Then he turned to gaze up at the two rooftops the MI6 technicians had determined the shot had come from. The only evidence they had that someone had been up here was a shoeprint.

But a shoeprint wasn't enough to find and convict a sniper with SCORPIA connections. The sheer number of people who had the same kind of shoe…

Ian spat to the side and hefted his bag off the pavement. Now this certain boy would always have to watch his heart. He would always have to make sure he didn't exert himself. That boy would always have to make sure nobody even hit him in the chest.

That same boy had gotten roped into two more 'missions' and had even got sent into space!

So what was Alex now? Was he ruthless or scared? Or could it be worse? Was he desensitized to it all like Ian himself was?

Alex had killed. Yes, it was in self defense, but even that could mess with a person's head. Even the Englishman still had nightmares about his first kill.

He shook his head. Seeing Alex again was going to be… _interesting._

* * *

Jack had scrubbed the house from top to bottom. She always cleaned whenever she was in emotional turmoil. Alex and Ian had become used to it.

When she had broken up with her boyfriend of almost a year, she cleaned. When her sister was diagnosed with cancer, she had cleaned. When Ian had die- disappeared and MI6 had carted Alex off she had scrubbed the floors so hard, she was surprised no signs of wear had shown. Now, the frazzled housekeeper made sure there wasn't a speck of dust in the house.

She was so tied up in knots. Ian was alive! She had even hugged him just to make sure he wasn't some sick trick of her mind. He wasn't. He was flesh and blood. She knew because she had touched him and smelled his familiar scent.

_Gosh Jack, _that_ doesn't sound too stalkerish, _she snorted to herself and scrubbed at a stubborn stain on the kitchen floor. Her red hair had once been swept up in a messy bun, but now it was sticking in all directions. She blew a strand of the offending hair away and returned to her thoughts.

_Where was I? Oh yeah…_

Anyway, Jack was now 100 percent sure that he was alive. She wasn't 100 percent sure that he exactly Ian. He could be some demented imposter from one of those equally demented villains that Alex clashed with. She honestly wouldn't be surprised.

But if he wasn't 100 percent Ian, how did he know about her gun? Not even her own little superspy knew about it.

_Maybe they tortured him into giving up information about how to convince me that he was who he said he was. _

Jack's eyes widened. She bit her lip and scrubbed harder.

No, if Ian was truly dead, then this guy couldn't be an imposter. Nobody, not even MI6 can find out stuff from a dead man. Unless Ian was alive and he was being tortured right now. Or they could have tortured him before they killed him, and this guy really was an imposter.

"Ugh!" Her mind had been running in circles all freaking day!

She gave up on the stain and briefly checked her watch. Alex would be home in half an hour. Ian had said he would be here by then. Another thought hit her.

_What if he wasn't coming back?_

Jack quickly wiped at the few tears that had broken through. Leave it to a guy to screw with her emotions.

She made up her mind then. She would not tolerate this anymore. Maybe, just maybe she could plan ahead and finally be prepared no matter what. It was time to follow the Rider family's example and get paranoid. It was time to get her gun.

* * *

The Englishman stepped onto the front porch and raised his hand to knock. Everything was so familiar, yet so different. He lost his key that was for sure.

_Maybe I lent it to One-eye for safe keeping_.

He laughed and noticed the stoop had been swept clean. The new garden had been weeded and the lawn had been mowed. It was obvious to him that Jack had been cleaning.

Ian's lips quirked up in a smile as he knocked on the door instead. At least some things hadn't changed. Maybe this whole affair wouldn't be as painful as he expected.

The door flew open and he looked at Jack's pinched face. A wave of guilt shot through him. Nope. This whole affair was still going to cause Jack and Alex a lot of pain. He would have cursed at that moment if it wasn't for the fact five months of cursing had done him no good when he was bleeding and in extreme pain.

"Ian!"

He nodded at her, his face impassive. "Jack."

She stood there for a few moments and just looked at him. Her striking red hair was wild and her eyes slightly exited but weary. The Englishman let her observe him for a few unnerving moments, and then cleared his throat.

"You know, in civilized countries like Great Britain, it's impolite to stare and keep them on the front doorstep without inviting them in. Now I don't know what country _you_ are from, but…"

Jack averted her gaze and blushed ever so slightly. "Sorry. Come in."

Ian smiled a little at her and came in. Unconsciously, he took a deep breath. The house smelt like… _home._ It didn't smell like baked cookies or anything strange like that. It smelled like the American's perfume, Alex's smelly socks, and the lemon scented disinfectant that Jack had used to scrub the floors. It was soothing.

The Englishman had missed this smell with an almost heart-breaking desperation. The only odour he was used to was the dank stink of his cell. All he had was the scent of blood, sweat, dirt, and his own excrement.

Jack was staring at him again. That made him more nervous than he had any right to be.

"Jack..."

"Well I'm sorry, but it's not like everyday someone comes back from the dead! It's not every day I have to act like nothing ever happened!"

"I didn't come back from the d-"

"Yes you did," she interrupted. "You were dead to us. Gone. We had to live without you."

Ian inwardly winced. The way she had said it… It sounded like he didn't belong here anymore. Maybe he didn't. Maybe, just maybe he should return to the Bank. He wasn't ready for this. Jack wasn't ready for this. Not to mention how unfair this was to her.

"But I'm alright with this. It doesn't mean we haven't missed you." Ian turned to look down at her. "I made up your bed. We haven't really touched your room."

He nodded, the moment over. There would never be a good time. Alex's time was running out. He needed to do something now before his nephew died… Or worse, before he took his own life.

"I need to go settle back into my room."

"When will we talk?"

"When I'm done."

Jack sighed sadly. "He's so different…"

"We're all different," he whispered before heading up the stairs to his room.

* * *

The Englishman grimaced as he observed his room after having put away his sparse belongings. He was slightly dazed. It was so strange being back in his old room. He had gotten used to a cell that wasn't any bigger than his closet here.

Everything reminded him of what used to be. Everything reminded him of what couldn't be anymore. It had seemed like each waking minute he had spent in captivity, he had wished to be home, to be safe, and to have a reprieve. At that time it didn't matter how long he could stay at home, just as long as he had a break.

But now that he was back, he was painfully aware of how he had changed. He realized how proud he had been. He realized how he should have fought Blunt when the man had insisted he start training Alex. He realized that he had never really given any love to the boy, and to be honest, he didn't really think he had tried.

Now Ian walked with a slight limp. Now he was scarred emotionally and physically. Being alone in utter silence was difficult. It reminded him of all time he spent alone destroyed and insane in his cell. For that matter enclosed spaces, touching people, and loud noises bothered him.

He was so broken…

One fleeting look at his arms and chest could attest to that. Scars and welts covered almost every inch his body. He was thinner than he had ever been in his whole life due malnutrition, despite the MI6 medics trying their best to fill him out a little. His nose had been clearly broken more than once, and a jagged scar ran up from his right bicep, up the front of his neck, past his ear and into his hair.

The Englishman sneered and turned from the mirror in his bathroom. He would never be the same Ian Rider and agent again. He needed to accept that and move on.

Well, he would try at least.

* * *

Ian was on his second cup of tea when he had finally finished telling his story to Jack. She paced around the room wide eyed for a few minutes.

"How could they-… Why-… Oh my gosh are you okay!" She rushed to him but stopped just short, not knowing what she should do.

The Englishman smiled, slightly relieved that she hadn't decided to touch him. "I'm fine Jack, MI6 had me checked out. I'm the same Ian with a few more scrapes and scars." Well that and he couldn't get tortured for a few months, just because…

Another even more morbid thought hit Jack. "What if, what if that happens to Alex?"

He felt an almost paternal and protective feeling course through him. "That will never happen."

"But what if-"

"No," he growled. "Never in my life, will. That. Happen." Ian didn't add that either Blunt or him would die before that happened. He cleared his throat. "Now, on a lighter note, sit down and tell me about what's going on in your life?"

Jack took a deep breath and began to chat idly about someone she dated briefly and the affairs of the neighborhood. Although The Englishman could care less about the snooping Mrs. McAllister, it was actually pretty soothing.

He reminded himself to let Jack on a holiday to go see her parents or something. She had already done so much for his nephew.

But then the doorknob rattled and they both froze. Alex was finally home.

"Jack," Alex's voice rang through the house, "sorry I'm late. Some agents were following me for some reason and I had to lose them…" The boy stopped as he stood at the kitchen door and saw they had a visitor. The man's back was to him, but somehow he seemed familiar.

Jack shot up out of her chair as if her rear end was alight. "Alex! Um hey… but… yeah… um…" She rung her hands nervously and for one of those rare moments, didn't know what to say.

The Englishman sipped his tea. Outwardly he was calm. But inside his heart was pounding for some odd reason. He had faced more agony than people had ever thought to have nightmares about and still he couldn't face his nephew. _Heh._

"We have a visitor." Alex stated simply.

"Yes! But you actually know him."

"Who?" he asked curiously.

Ian put down his tea, stood and turned to face his nephew. "Hello Alex."

Alex stopped and just stared at Ian bug-eyed. It was obvious he was shell shocked. The Englishman took this reprieve to inspect this now virtual stranger. He looked so much like John, and it was obvious the boy had grown. He was taller, his shoulders a bit wider and it was obvious he was fit and alert. But his brown eyes were his most striking feature. They were dull and lifeless just like Ian's own.

But this child spy had not yet perfected keeping his emotions undetected. Ian tried to name all of them. Anger. Guilt. Greif. Surprise. Disbelief. _Anger._

"W-why are you here?" Alex demanded in a menacing voice. Ian felt the urge not to laugh. He had lived with people that were far more intimidating than that.

So he said nothing, just stared back at Alex with his cool gray eyes.

"Y-you're supposed to be dead! MI6 said you were dead!" His voice rose in pitch.

"MI6 believed I was dead. For once they weren't lying to you."

"But… But I saw your car! I talked to Yassen!"

Ian's jaw tightened at the mention of Yassen but shook his head. "Yassen believed I was dead too. He wouldn't have returned home until the job was done."

Alex was flustered and The Englishman could read him like an open book. The boy had seen many things throughout his life, but this was absurd. No one came back from the dead anymore. No one. That was stuff for the Bible not for a fourteen year old spy.

"Then what happened to you?"

"Yassen shot me. I crashed my car. I was dying, and then an extremist group snatched me up, waited until I was healed, and tortured me for information. Pretty simple actually."

Alex's hands balled up into fists and Ian saw him getting ready to strike. He inwardly sighed. This is what MI6 had turned his family into. There was so much distrust nowadays.

"How do I know it's really you?"

Ian brought up a hand and studied it with disinterest. He watched Alex out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. Alex looked like he was getting angry at his uncle's lack of interest. This was a serious matter after all.

"I asked you a-"

"Yes, yes," The Englishman waved it off and returned his attention back to the boy. Head games were overrated anyway. "You asked me how you knew if it was really me. You've gotten impatient haven't you? What happened to the sarcasm?"

Alex narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, sorry. You have a birthmark behind your left ear. But that Grief fellow knew that… Hmm. Oh I know, you're actually afraid of clowns. Well you were, anyway. Who knows what you are afraid of now."

Alex's eyes widened and Ian heard Jack whisper softly to herself.

"_Clowns?_"

His nephew breathed out slowly and calmly glared at Ian. He had finally gotten his emotions under control. "I have a lot of homework…"

Ian grabbed an apple from the table and tossed it to him. "Then go do it."

Alex nodded and left.

Jack rushed to Ian's side, worried. "Ian…"

He shushed her with an outstretched hand. "Just wait a few minutes. He needs time to process this." _And so do I,_ he added silently.

Jack was right, Alex was very different. It was obvious his time with MI6 had taken a toll on him. He stood alert and confident, but almost hunched as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. In a way it was. God only knew how many times he had saved it.

It was also pretty clear that Alex did not trust him. He didn't say it out loud but he had communicated as much with his actions. Even something as simple as an irrational childhood fear wasn't enough proof for a seasoned spy.

"Jack, can I see you for a second?" Alex called down.

She looked over at Ian.

"You don't have to ask my permission, Jack."

She shrugged and rushed up the stairs.

Ian smiled and picked up his abandoned cup. He could already predict what would be happening up there. Alex would start talking to Jack in hushed tones. They would converse about trusting this "dead man", weighing whether he was the real deal or not. After a few minutes of harsh whispering, Alex would convince Jack to keep an eye on him, and to be ready to protect herself.

Ian was mostly right. He would have done the same thing after all. Maybe he would have done it a little more nonchalantly, but he would have done it all the same.

With this realization, he froze. _He would have done the same thing… The look in Alex's eyes mirroring his own… _

MI6 had turned Alex into another Ian. This scared The Englishman more than anything else, because only he really knew what that meant. MI6 had seized all the hope out of the boy. Just as One-eye had destroyed The Englishman, they had destroyed him…


	7. Chapter 5

EDIT: Sorry if this updated anything, but Nyxelestia kindly pointed out that I since I had not done my homework, I did not realize that Britian has a nationalized health-care system and my point for Crawley hating Blunt is now moot. So I redid the last part. Thanks.

**So, so sorry for the long wait, but I tried my best. I ran into more beta problems and such, but we fixed it.**

**Disclaimer: Plot idea is mine! I can claim it!!!!**

* * *

"Torture is not about battering a man's body. Yes, that's what torture uses, but it is not for the purpose of breaking bones. It is for breaking the mind… Yes, I admit, my colleague, Mr. One-eye breaks your bones. He does it well, no? Heh, but in time, his medieval methods and outdated devices will be a thing of the past.

"Even Chinese water torture and water boarding is all about tricking the mind. That's what I do, Mr. Englishman. My name is Dr. Murdock, and I am here to ruin your brain. Oh, please don't bleed on my floor. Concrete stains very easily; it's very porous… Very good… Now, shall we get to it?"

* * *

The Englishman jerked awake, expecting to be lying in his uncomfortable cot. Instead he was warm and comfortable, almost groggy. It was almost as if he had got a decent night's sleep.

That was impossible.

He warily reached out a hand, expecting it to bash into the hard concrete wall. Instead it just sailed over a soft down comforter and bed.

His grogginess disappeared as he sat up. Now he was alert as he scanned the dark room. His eyes had adjusted to the night. The room was bigger than he remembered. There were actually a few pieces of furniture and the stench was gone.

The Englishman began to breathe heavily as the fear crawled into his mind. He didn't know if this was another of Dr. Murdock's tricks-it probably was- but he hoped not.

His eyes snagged on an oil painting that Jack had bought him. He actually remembered the conversation:

"_What's this?"_

"_It's a lotus flower. It symbolizes a long life in China." The red-head smiled as she offered the framed painting to him._

"_No, what is _this?_"_

_Jack just placed a free hand on her hip and glared. "It's a freaking gift; you get some for me all the time. Now take it."_

_He gave Jack a hint of a smile and took it. "Fine Jack, thank you."_

Ian groaned and fell back on his bed, berating himself. For almost two months this had been going on. For almost two months it never ceased to scare him. Maybe it would be better his second night here.

As much as he would like to curl up and go back to sleep, it was impossible. Once he woke up that was it, he could never go back to sleep.

He rolled out of bed and padded to his dresser. Quietly, he slipped a pair of sweatpants and a warm shirt on. No doubt Alex was listening to Ian's every move. Even if he wasn't awake, he was listening. It was called being alert.

Like the trained-if not rusty- spy he was, he quietly opened his old window. Goosebumps erupted on the man's bare skin as he cold air came in contact with it. It would be a nice night for a walk. He jumped out the window and scanned his surroundings.

The air warned of impending rain. The grass was soft under his feet. The neighbour next door had fallen asleep with the telly on. The two agents in the black Audi across the street had also fallen asleep. The streetlamp was sputtering out again.

Ian chuckled and darted out from the side of his house, momentarily exposing himself. The neighbourhood snoop, Mrs. McAllister, stuck her head out of her curtains to glare at him. He waved. She made a face and closed the gap angrily. She hated getting caught.

He laughed softly again and slid into the shadows once more. There were four more agents at the end of the street. In an hour and a half they would change shifts. It was typical operating procedure. His plan was to jump a few fences and make his escape through another street. Then, he wouldn't be spotted.

* * *

Ian was not the only man who couldn't sleep that night. Another lone man simply stared at his white-washed ceiling. He was almost engulfed in his plush king sized bed and mass of pillows. A beam of pale moonlight illuminated his grey and pallid features. Neon green numbers from his alarm clock seemed to almost float in this darkness.

3:15. _Only computer nerds, teenagers, and night employees are awake at this hour!_

The man named Alan Blunt sighed and returned his gaze to the roof. This situation with Ian Rider never ceased to annoy him. Ever since he showed up at the Bank he had been a thorn in his side. The man threatened everything Blunt had worked to achieve in Alex.

The real thing that annoyed him was that the man was sane. Yes, he did have some mental instability, but he was sane! If he wasn't, then MI6 could deny custody on those grounds. But he wasn't, so if he wanted to take the child, he could. Under no circumstances could that be allowed. Blunt needed to expect the impossible in this business.

His agents were having a hard time keeping up with him as well. Ian had been a phenomenal agent. For example, very few field agents had their own offices, and it was an honour to receive one. John had been willing to give up his life for his job. Ian was so good he didn't need to. Now Alex, with his uncle's training and the Rider blood… he was the perfect agent.

An idea hit the old, cynical man as his mind wandered. If his spies couldn't watch Rider, maybe someone hired could. Ian was a master at cloak and dagger. He was famous for it. Blunt had been trying to match it, so what if he tried to counter it?

One of his new spies came to mind, Daniels. He was a greenhorn, yes. But he had black-ops training with the Special Air Service which had given him an advantage. He also had a team in the SAS…

The man's black eyes gleamed in the darkness. If he couldn't match Ian's spy skills, he'd counter it with brute strength.

* * *

When a black car started trailing behind Ian, it scared the living daylights out of him. He was walking on the pavement, enjoying the night when a car pulled up behind him. It was a dark colour with its windows blacked out.

He didn't know if it contained hostiles or friends. He didn't know if it was Veritas coming to get him. He didn't know if it was MI6. He didn't know if it was someone else.

But he did know he had two instinctual choices. Fight or Flight. Before Ian could make his choice, his training set in like an anvil in his mind. There was a third choice that went against his instincts. He could wait.

His natural feelings were telling him to run. His human nature was telling him that waiting would get him in trouble. But he knew that in some cases following his "gut feeling" could get him killed. The trick was to know when.

Ian slowly came to a halt and let the car draw even with him. It was a dark blue, he now realized. MI6 didn't have blue cars in their official fleet. He made a fist to try and calm his panic, his nails digging deep.

The window in the back rolled down.

"There are cameras on this street," a woman's voice announced. "Up ten paces or so there is an alleyway. Meet me there."

The lone man let out a sigh of pure relief as the window rolled up and the car rolled away. His heavy heartbeat began to slowly abate. He gave a small smile and shook his head. It was Mrs. Jones. Once again his fear was unfounded. He hoped it would stay that way.

Ian met up with the car and slid in the back.

"Hello, Ian."

"Good morning, Mrs. Jones." He looked at the driver. "Crawley."

Crawley nodded before putting his hat back on. He had taken it off so Ian could see his face, but he didn't want anyone outside the car identifying him.

"How have you been Rider?" Jones asked. "Long time no talk."

It was true. They had their professional courtesies, yes, but over the years they had actually become… friends. It was surprising but true. It had started when Ian had first been charged with raising Alex. He had been in the Bank's cafeteria when she first approached him. She had only stopped because he had looked like a complete mess. They had begun to talk, she had recommended a nanny, and the rest was history.

After that they met pretty frequently at the same spot. They usually discussed the highs and lows of raising a kid while being a spy and such. Ian even had begun to have a sneaking suspicion that she was beginning to become attached to Alex… But they were both good at keeping their personal and professional lives separate. Therefore, Blunt never had a problem with their friendship.

Ian smiled ruefully and ran a hand through his hair. "You're telling me."

"How's Alex?"

He grimaced. "He's aged. He's… The look in his eyes is like the look those kids have that you see in the field. The kids who have been raped and their parents murdered… The kids who are trained to kill you…" Ian took in a deep breath. "I never thought that would be my nephew."

Mrs. Jones licked her lips nervously as she looked away.

"Yes," She started after a few moments of silence, "I know…"

The woman refrained from saying anything along the lines as "I'm sorry." It would be useless and pointless now. Even if she could have done something, she didn't. She would have to live with herself now.

She decided to change the subject after another few seconds of silence. "…Do you have the contacts?"

Ian reached into a pocket in his sweats and pulled them out.

"I only take them off my person when I'm in the Bank and sleeping."

She took them and put them in her purse. "Good. Your house is going to be searched on Thursday. Probably sooner, knowing Blunt's paranoia."

Ian sighed and leaned back. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

"Surely you've weighed my motives." Mrs. Jones smiled slightly as she rooted through her purse. "Even if I was allied with _him, _and I helped you, I'd be in charge. Why would I want to keep him in? If Alex or any other of his projects is discovered, then I'd have a mess to clean up. The list goes on, and I know you've thought about it. I have a lot of selfish reasons for this, I admit it."

She took a pack out of her purse, pulled out a white and yellow stick out of it, and pulled out a lighter.

"I thought you quit," Ian stated.

Mrs. Jones succeeded in lighting her cigarette and took a deep drag. Her eyes closed in bliss as she leaned her head against the seat.

"The peppermints didn't have as much as a kick as I needed tonight," she sighed.

"Can we trust Crawley?"

Jones nodded, never opening her now closed eyes. Getting no explanation from her, Ian looked towards Crawley.

The man in question took a deep breath and his knuckles turned white from the tight grip he had on the steering wheel. He was obviously fighting with his anger, which he was well known for.

"My son..." he ground out, "... always wanted... Always wanted to be like his dad. He joined MI6."

The Englishman nodded. He remembered this. Bill Crawley was a shrewd kid, if not impressionable. Ian had taken a liking to him almost immediately.

"When he was still green, Blunt sent him on a job that was meant for someone more experienced... A job that-that was meant for me... He had no training, no back-up... no plan! It was a fool's mission that not even I could have done!" Crawley started yelling and hit the steering wheel in pure rage. He whirled around to face Ian, his face red and his eyes puffy.

"Alex is not the only one who has been used. Blunt's killing off all of our children, all of the younger generation. If a spy has a family tie, it's easy to assume that the family tie is going to dissapear one way or another. Familes have broken up because of him. People have died because of his foolishness! If anything is going to do something about it, it's going to be me... My-My son's death will not be in vain..."

Sobered, The Englishman nodded and Crawley whirled back, seething in anger and satisfied that he had gotten his point across.

"I hate him." The spy in the front snarled one last time.

_For good reason, my friend. For good reason._

* * *

**A little bit of a filler, but please review! I'm working on the next chapter now. If there is anything you'd like to see, confrontations, hook-ups and such, please tell me! If it jives with the story, I'll work it in.**

**Next Chapter: Alex and Ian interactions.**


	8. Chapter 6

**WOW so many reviews! Thanks for putting up with me and thanks to so many people who reviewed, favored, alerted or just plain read it. You guys are awesome, and I'm sorry for taking so long. And I'm sorry if I didn't respond to reviews. I also changed the ending to the last chapter. Nxyelestica kindly pointed out that Britain has national healthcare and that Crawely's point for hating Blunt is now moot. So I went back, changed it up and now I believe that his new reason is much better and will be used in the following chapters.**

**Oh and to those who read my comments about another author before I deleted it… Ignore it. I was being a bratty idiot. Plain and simple. I'm guilty of doing the same, really. So I'm sorry and I deeply, deeply apologize. If there's anything I can do for the author I insulted I will gladly do it.**

**Warning: Mild cussing. It will probably tone down next chapter, but I apologize in advance to those who are offended. Thanks. (And yes, all the 'damns' are intentional.)**

**Enjoy.**

---

Eighteen Months Later:

Javier Gomez-Cortez was obsessed with the military and he no longer cared who knew it. He always knew it was filled with enough adventure and excitement and enough glorious physical activity that a child with ADHD loved to dream about. Of course, over the years, his inattentiveness had been controlled with medicine and even faded away enough for a normal life to be possible but the hyperactivity still held Javier captive. It was a good thing with everything that needed to be done.

But sometimes Wolf wished that the SAS hadn't programmed him to be such a damn effective solider. His own _personal_ bed had damned hospital corners at the moment. He had redone them five times in the hopes that if he remade the bed enough, the rest of the two months of leave would pass by faster.

It was not only his bed that was made up. It was also his whole apartment that had seen the wrath of a bored Special Forces man, along with all his overdue paperwork, his now balanced checkbook and all the cans in the cabinet were now organized alphabetically.

"Damn hospital corners!" He whispered, making those two words sound like the Devil's own personal curse.

His dog, a lovable and slimy St. Bernard whined from his corner and simply looked at Javier pleadingly. Wolf rolled his eyes and stroked his dog's gigantic head when it bumbled over. The poor bugger was not going be on the earth long anyway.

Something exploded on the telly and the SAS man rolled his eyes. He didn't know why he was watching this attempt at a military movie. They either portrayed the characters as depressed shells, psychopaths, supermen, incompetent fools or an unhappy blend of a few of those traits.

They never portrayed them as normal humans and it annoyed Wolf to no end. Sure some things about his job were depressing and gruesome. Watching your friend's head explode from a sniper bullet and have his coppery blood get into your eyes, mouth and nose was nothing to be happy about. Damn, it was more than just depressing; it was life shattering. But that was what Wolf signed up for and goddammit, he was going to see it through because he enjoyed every dammed second of it.

Being in the military was not about being a douche or an annoyingly patriotic person. It was about loving your country so much that you would seriously die for it. No matter the politics, no matter the opinions. Wolf would rather die in pain and agony then die and know he could have done something better in life. His self-indulgent fellow Britons would probably never know his name or what he did for them and they probably wouldn't care. But as long as they were safe enough to be self-indulgent that was enough for him.

Of course, the close friendships that would last a lifetime that he formed were worth more than gold. Even Andrew (Coyote) had become close friends with everyone. Ben even liked him.

Mocoso grunted and Javier realized he had ceased his petting. Wolf apologized and resumed petting and thinking.

Anyway, back to the military obsession. He had always dreamed of being a NCO (or Non-Commissioned Officer), even while everyone else wanted to be an astronaut or a doctor. His father had been in the Columbian Air Force and raised his son to be proud of whatever country they ended up being citizens of. Javier had followed his father's wishes to a fault. It annoyed his unit mates to no end.

The telephone suddenly rang and Javier's gut twisted in warning. He recognized that his finely tuned instincts were telling him something was about to go down and his heart stopped for a second out of anticipation. A smile slowly spread itself across his face. Finally. He was going crazy with nothing to do and his unhealthy obsession with his profession was going to eat him alive.

The phone rang again and Javier would have jumped up and snatched it up, if not for the beast that had pinned Wolf's legs to the couch.

"_Ay, Mocoso_, _muevete_! Move!"

The dog only shuffled closer and Wolf realized that he hadn't been able to feel his legs for a while now. He let out a stream of curse words in English and the dog wouldn't budge no matter how loud Wolf got or no matter how hard he pulled Mocoso's collar. Soon, the phone quit its shrill alarms and Javier sunk back into the couch, fuming. His dog looked up at him then walked away, disinterested.

"Gah!" If the man wasn't so attached to his pet, he was sure to have strangled it.

Just as soon as Wolf thought all hope was lost, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He jumped up and fished the flimsy plastic toy out. He fumbled with the small buttons before bringing it up to his ear.

"Gomez-Cortez."

"'Morning, Cortez." The calm voice of Javier's Commanding Officer intoned.

"Morning, Sir." Wolf replied formally. He had a great deal of respect for his CO but the man could be cryptic and it felt like it was going to be one of those times.

"Well, Cortez, I'm calling because we have a mission we think you might be interested in." The voice on the other end sounded vaguely amused.

"Sir?" Wolf swallowed the smile that threatened to consume his whole face in case he came off _too_ excited.

"It will all be explained in good time. Show up Monday at 0630 hours and we'll see if you want to involve yourself with this."

"Sir, permission to ask what 'this' is?"

"Any other day, I'll tell you, Javier. But I don't even know what's going on. All I know is that you and your mates need to be here Monday. Shame that it's cutting your vacation short."

"I like to think it's a blessing in disguise. The military knows they didn't make me to sit around all day."

The man on the other side of the phone laughed. "See you Monday, Cortez."

"Good-bye, Sir."

Damn, what was Wolf going to do with two days to kill?

---

Present Day:

Around ten in the morning, The Englishman sauntered into a house that was supposed to be his. It was all so surreal. The house was in his name but he still needed to climb back through his window and borrow Jack's house key to get in the front door like a normal person. He was supposed to be a stealthy agent but the sight of a sleeping Jack took his breath away. He had even wanted to reach out and touch her just to see if she was real and that it was not just a trick of his mind, but thankfully he still had enough self control to keep his hands to himself.

Nevertheless, he had stepped on a treacherous floorboard he shouldn't have stepped on right outside her room and bumped into the wall when his legs suddenly started shaking.

Ian sighed at the memory and rubbed a hand over his face after he set the groceries down and returned the key to Jack's room. She wouldn't trust him if she knew that he was sneaking into her room. The Englishman frowned and returned downstairs and started making "harmless noise" to signal to Alex that the person moving around the house was indeed a friendly. Alex would be even more suspicious if his supposed uncle was slinking around the house. It didn't matter that sneaking around was all Ian knew anymore.

Oh well. Going back to the dorms at MI6 would only bury The Englishman into more debt to Blunt. The more Ian owed, the tighter the grip would be. Ian could not compromise at this point in the game. Alex's freedom depended on it.

That was why The English-_Ian_ had gone into his bathroom to take out the spare money he had hidden in a dud pipe he had installed a long time ago. When John had been sent off to jail, Ian realized how important having a back-up plan was. Alex and Jack needed food and he could now provide it.

He did not know that Jack did not have any food in the household. He was ashamed to admit that he had not really cared to notice. But after he had crawled inside the window that morning, he had suddenly had a craving for banana slices covered with peanut butter and honey. But when he got to the kitchen, he discovered that the cupboards and kitchen were empty except for an empty gallon of milk and a few boxes of instant oatmeal. It was like his heart had shattered as he remembered something Jones had told him.

"_Jack's been trying to get a job for…" Jones trailed off as she lovingly blew out a ring of smoke with a soft _phwwwww_. "She's been trying to get a job for months now. Blunt doesn't allow it of course."_

The woman had said it so flippantly that The Englishman had not realized the ramifications of it until he saw the bare kitchen. Poor girl was in deeply in debt and she had not even told him about it when she was informing him about what was going on in her life. How could he have been so stupid?

The Englishman swallowed the lump of tears in his throat with much difficulty. He had never been a crying man but this whole situation warranted strong emotion. His job as a man was to provide, to protect, and to love. He had failed miserably at all three and never ceased to be reminded of it.

He began to put the groceries away and had to pause when the emotion coupled with his familiar dizziness caused him to swoon a bit. His right hand balled into a fist that he lightly brought down onto the counter in barely contained frustration. No matter how much physical therapy he would have to go to, this ordeal would always plague him.

It grated on his nerves. He just wanted to be healed and whole. He never let himself be weak in the past.

The Englishman took a deep breath. He gave himself a goal, just like his trainer had told him. His goal was to finish putting the groceries away and then he could collapse on his bed. Ian nodded to himself and reminded himself that he was trying.

But damn it, trying was still not good enough.

---

It would be impossible to truly document The Englishman's frustration with himself because to do that, one would have to understand that Ian now felt like two different men. Maybe three if he looked at it correctly.

One was a weary and tired Ian who wished he could have died in that place. He had heard somewhere that heaven was actually very nice and that God did take in those who repented. It seemed like every second of the day now that Ian was repenting for all the mistakes he made.

Then there was Ian the agent who was calculating his every move. Ian the agent was on edge every minute of the day. Ian the agent was not human, because last time he had let himself be a simple, _dying_ human, a terrorist organization had snatched him up. Ian the agent was not human because he was never trained that way. Ian the agent had destroyed everything that Ian the human had loved.

Lastly there was The Englishman. The Englishman was all that was left of both Ians. The Englishman was wild, crazed and the tattered pieces of what used to be a man. The Englishman was the only thing that Ian knew himself as because when everything else had failed him his Englishman persona held on. When Ian the agent had failed and tired Ian gave up, The Englishman was the only thing that insisted that survival was still a viable option.

"I'm a loony…" Ian whispered as he lay on his bed and stared at the colors whirling and writhing on his _white_ ceiling.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as the beginnings of a migraine blossomed from behind his eyes. He had fallen onto his bed and just laid there for a good ten minutes. He had paperwork to get to. He had to take a shower. If he was decent, he could have started breakfast.

But his hand was too shaky to start cracking eggs and his limbs to wobbly to stand upright in a shower for that long. So he designated himself thirty more minutes of rest and then he would go downstairs and join his soon to be rising family.

--

Who was he kidding? Alex and Jack weren't his family. They had their own customs and traditions. Their nuances were perfectly tuned to each other and not an outsider. It was obvious by the routine Ian overheard. Jack got up to take a shower and by the time she was out, Alex was downstairs making coffee. There was a sound of coffee cups clinking against the cupboard._ Since when did Alex start drinking coffee?_ Murmuring followed with the squeak of one of the metal chairs against the linoleum floor. There was a sigh from Jack and then more murmuring.

Ian suddenly felt a strange feeling of anger. How dare they go on with their life. What gave them the right to create their own traditions without him? What were they thinking?

_What were you thinking when you left them each time, knowing you might not come back?_

The Englishman pinched the bridge of his nose again. He needed to stop acting like such a woman and accept reality. Life went on, whether he liked it or not. He needed to stop complaining and pretending he was this damaged soul when he had plenty of time to pout during his sleepless nights.

With that in mind, he stumbled to the shower in hopes to wash away his migraine.

---

The Englishman slowly and quietly walked downstairs where Alex and Jack were waiting. They made no move to hide their stares as they paused their eating. He mentally winced. Their gazes felt like hot pokers in his back and no amount of deliberate movement would stop it.

He slowly made his way over to get a glass of water. When he turned to face them again, Alex slowly began to eat again. They made eye contact and it was all Ian could do to keep himself from falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness. He didn't and Alex didn't break his gaze.

It was awkward. Tense. Horrible. For one sickening second, The Englishman even wished he was in his old uncomfortable cot again. At least he knew that cot better than he knew his nephew.

He felt like he was going to retch at that thought. He stared miserably in his cup. He glanced up at Jack. She met his gaze then looked away as if locking gazes was dangerous.

Finally, The Englishman snarled and set down his cup firmly. This was ridiculous. He crossed his arms and looked Alex and Jack straight in the eye, daring them to do something. If anything was going to get done here, it was going to happen when everyone stopped being such pansies.

Alex froze and his eyes narrowed at Ian. Ian glared back. The air now popped and sparked with such sudden electricity that it was almost soothing. This kind of environment was like a second home.

"Yes, Alex?" He asked almost testily.

The boy glared for a few seconds. "Why the hell are you here?"

"Alex!" Jack gasped.

"Because it's my house, Dumbarse."

The fact that Ian had cursed at Alex for the first time in his life left everyone in the kitchen silent. Then The Englishman's mouth and cheek twitched slightly in what he realized was the beginnings of a smile. It only grew wider as he saw the overly offended and shocked look on Alex's face. The boy had probably never been called a "dumbarse" before, and it seemed to really, really bug him.

For some reason this had Ian laughing out loud before he could stop. It felt good to laugh, and the petulant anger Alex plastered on his face was worth its weight in gold. Ah, it was good to be back home.

---

**I hope you liked it. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, things you would like to see, don't be afraid to review. **

**I must say, I loved this chapter if only for all the military terms. Time to be the military geek I am. :D**

**Terms you might not recognize: **

**Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO): NCOs are enlisted people who have an officer job, even though they did not go through the typical officer training.**

**Commanding Officer: Basically the officer or enlisted person who is in charge.**


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